


Mile Marker

by missmollyetc



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fugitive Recovery, a Chevy, and Thou</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mile Marker

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing (apparently, not even my sanity). Numb3rs is the product of CBS and the Scott Brothers, and I make nothing from this while they rake in the millions. Which is how I like it. In other words? I. Made. It. Up.

Five miles out of Durham, fifteen more to go 'til the next pit stop, and his partner's sacked out in the backseat, curled up on two week's worth of fast food wrappers and empty cans. It's stopped raining, so Coop rolls the window down and leans his elbow on the door. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth with two fingers, and angles the smoke out the window. Don don't like the smell in the car, even though he don't mind the taste in his mouth.

He switches lanes, and takes a look in the rearview mirror. Nothing behind them, nothing in front, or to the sides. It's just Coop and Don, and the perp somewhere up in wherever the fuck Yamhill is. Fugitive Recovery at its finest.

In the mirror, he can see the tip of Don's nose poking out from his coat and Coop's bomber jacket piled on top. He's all wrapped up like a five year old, crossed legs hanging off the seat. The fabric of Don's jeans--tight jeans 'cause neither of them can do laundry for shit--pulls over the bulge at Don's crotch.

Coop licks his lips, and shifts his grip on the steering wheel.

Fugitive Recovery ain't like other tracks in the FBI. They've been on the road for months, stopping in at field offices, and saving the day. Coop and Don, Don and Coop, same as peas in a pod and twice as sweet.

"Don," he says, "Hey, Don!"

His partner snorts, and digs further into their coats, pulling the sleeves up around his head. Coop hauls on the wheel, swerving into the next lane, and knocking Don into the car door.

Don comes up snarling, just like he should, all red nose and hunt-hungry eyes. Don doesn't like waking up, but on the road he never sleeps very good either, so every day Coop has a body primed to go off right in the passenger's side seat. He licks his lips, and rubs a hand along the seam on his pants. He wouldn't have it any other way.

"Fuck, fuck, what?"

Don pops his jaw, and holds his gun muzzle up in the same hand. His shirt's open at the collar, and pulled out of his jeans, two buttons missing from the bottom. Coop grins. They'd had to clear out of that bathroom stall too fast to look for 'em.

"You call home today?" Coop asks.

Don glares at him, and Coop's cock starts pushing against his fly. He spreads his thighs to give himself some breathin' room.

"Yeah, I called home," Don says.

His eyelids close for a second, shadows on his face that mean his Dad's been riding his ear about all the traveling they do. Coop turns back to the road, the dry brush on either side, and the long line of political signs that tell him they've missed another election. So much time on the road, and no time to pull over and vote. Not that it much matters. Hell, he doesn't remember his home county anyway.

He hears movement in the backseat, checks back to see Don holstering his weapon. Nice and smooth, all of one motion. Nobody looks as good with a pistol as Don Eppes; in his hand, safety off, or holstered tight to his body. Sometimes Coop don't even give Don the time to take the holsters off when they crash in a room. He just pushes him onto the bed, tears open the buttons and the zippers, sinks down deep into the smell of Don and gun oil and licks the cordite from his skin.

Coop takes a long breath, letting it shudder from his body, and stretches against the seat. He checks the mirrors again. Don's up, splayed out across the seat, and nobody's around but those cows two miles back.

"Hey, Eppes," he says, and grins so that Don'll see and grin back.

Ah, there it is. How a man who regularly tackles three hundred pound criminals can look like a choirboy without even trying fucks with Coop's head every damn time, but it ain't nothing compared to the devil peeping out in Don's brown eyes.

"Yeah, Coop?" Don asks, sleep-rasp in his voice. "You want me to take a turn?"

Coop shakes his head, still grinning.

Don's eyes narrow. "Coop…"

"Give me a show, Agent Eppes," he says.

Don glowers. He hems and haws, but his eyes start to burn, and as Coop watches, those deadly, heaven-sent fingers start to work their magic.

Aw yeah. There ain't nothing like Fugitive Recovery.


End file.
